


Blood Moons and Bad First Impressions

by 13Vivacious13



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: F/M, Hunay, Slow Burn, Urban Fantasy, and a tiny bit of shallura because i can, basically the whole "mythic creatures living among us" trope, coran is some sort of fey, flirtyrobot, i'll be changing the tags as time goes on, lance can shapeshift into a coyote, pidgance, pidge is a werewolf, plance, so watch out for that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:56:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/13Vivacious13/pseuds/13Vivacious13
Summary: Lance has always straddled the line between Humanity and Other with ease, his adaptable coyote nature serving him well in all walks of life. But when trouble comes to his town in the wake of a highly unwanted werewolf, he's thrown for a loop... and headfirst into a wall. Forced into a reluctant partnership with her in an attempt to save his home Lance must choose whether to give in to his instincts or his reason.





	1. Chapter 1

He should have known something would happen tonight. Blood moons always forboded some sort of danger. 

Lance crouched amongst the bushes, ignoring the roots and rocks digging into his soft belly. He inhaled, taking in the usual scents of earth and stone, grass and trees. This forest, his forest, was as familiar to him as his own mother. He knew where the squirrels and chipmunks stored their nuts, where the rabbits burrowed, where the deer slept with their young. He knew every stream and brook, every campsite to avoid. He knew which sounds belonged in his forest and which didn’t - hence his current decision to hide. 

Through a gap in the brush, he saw nothing but the ruddy moonlight streaming through the silent trees. A hooting owl just above him nearly had Lance bolting out into the open. He forced himself to stay still. He could still hear it… the softest of treads through the underbrush, light panting.

Next came the smell. Thick fur and pine sap and frost. More important was the scent of magic that followed. Wild and Moonstruck, radiating ripples of danger that begged him to flee as far and fast as he could. Lance recognized it at once, dreaded the implications of it. 

Finally, it appeared, an elongated shadow that shrank and contorted back into a familiar shape as it got closer. With his current set of eyes Lance couldn’t make out the color of her fur, but his night vision allowed him a clear view of her broad shoulders and blocky face. A werewolf. 

The she-wolf paused and snuffled at the ground. She cocked her head to one side and sniffed again. Lance wanted to laugh at her obvious confusion. Had she never smelled his kind before? It wasn’t like he’d gone out of his way to meet werewolf packs, quite the opposite, but _still_. It wasn’t like he was a rare breed. 

She swung her head towards his hiding place and stalked toward him. The twin urges to run and stay hidden left him quivering in the underbrush. Though rather small for a wolf, she still had a good hundred pounds on him. Perhaps she sensed him because the she-wolf slowed her pace and waited just at the edge of the bushes. Lance tried to calm down. The scent of fear would only excite her. 

One, two, three minutes passed in silence. Not even a breeze interrupted the cool night air with its song. The she-wolf made no move to flush Lance out, even though he knew she knew he was there. She was just… staring. Her eyes flickered, trying to catch a glimpse of him, but he was too far back into the bushes for her to see. 

Two could play that game. Lance allowed himself to settle as much as he dared and waited for her to get bored and leave. 

Ten minutes. 

Twenty minutes. 

Forty minutes. 

They were both getting bored. Now was the time when a sensible werewolf would leave. 

Not this one, apparently.  

She shoved her nose into the bushes. Lance acted on instinct. He bit her nose, his fangs scraping over sensitive skin, and ran in the other direction while the she-wolf yelped and sprang away. 

He listened for the howl that would summon the rest of her pack. _Don’t let them be too close_ , he silently begged. Lance was fast, and if he had a minute’s head start he could probably make it back to town before the pack could converge and ripped him to pieces. Much like real wolves, werewolves avoided human civilization as much as possible during their transformation.

No howling. Just the angry snarls of a wolf in pursuit. He dared to look over his shoulder. The she-wolf was alone, with no others in sight or smell. 

Was she really alone? 

Well then. 

Lance zipped around a large tree trunk before shooting off in the opposite direction, a U-turn that caught the wolf by surprise and sent her skidding after him. Those extra seconds proved useful and he led her on a merry chase through the trees, zigging and zagging, sometimes circling back, always heading for a certain grove deep in the forest. The wolf was persistent and quick on her feet. She nearly caught him a few more times than he’d care to admit. 

He finally leaped into the clearing and retreated to another clump of bushes, making no attempt to hide this time. He sat down on his haunches and waited the ten seconds it took for the wolf to find him, crashing through the underbrush as she did so. She glared from the other side of the clearing, her sides heaving. _Not much of a hunter if she’s already winded by a little chase._

Sensing his scorn, she snarled and readied herself for a charge. Lance ignored her growling threats and focused inward. His own magic sank deep into the earth below and mingled with the sky above, a column of movement and energy and unfinished business. 

It took little more than a thought. The she-wolf pounced at him, and at the last possible second, he vanished. 

He reappeared on the other side of the grove just in time to hear a confused “Aroo?” and see her crash headfirst into the thornbush. Her whimpering howls scared a flock of dozing birds from their perch and they twittered angrily as the wolf struggled to disentangle herself from her thorny predicament. 

Lance laughed and fled the scene. 

Coyote: 1, Wolf: 0. 

* * *

 

Lance would have preferred to shift in the safety of the woods, but he’d learned long ago that it was easier to hop the fence of the nature reserve in his coyote form. Rangers asked fewer questions. As it was, the dilapidated shed where he kept his clothes waited for him on the edge of town, and a cursory sniff confirmed that no one else was there. He shimmied through a gap in two loose boards and nosed his way to a haphazard pile of clothes.

For some shapeshifters, the change was long and painful. Many, like a certain werewolf, lost parts of their humanity and only regained it once they were back in their human form. But there was no real difference between Lance the human and Lance the coyote. His mind remained the same in either form and unlike many other shifters, he had total control over how and when he shifted. His employer claimed it was due to the origin of his magic, Lance liked to think it was due to his adaptable nature. In either case, it took a mere moment for the coyote to become a man. 

His now furless skin prickled with goosebumps and Lance rushed to put his clothes on. He fumbled a bit with his belt, unable to see in the dark now that he had his human eyes. Shuffling to the door, he opened it a crack and peered out. The street was empty. He quietly snuck out of the shed and flipped up the hood of his jacket, keeping his head low as he reached the sidewalk and headed for home. 

Thinking logically, he knew he didn’t have to worry all that much about being caught. Arus was a small town with barely 5,000 humans and 200 or so non-humans. There was only one establishment he knew of that was open this late.   
It took twenty chilly minutes to reach his condo, and by the time he’d snuck into the apartment via the window his teeth were chattering constantly. Next time he needed to bring a thicker jacket.

Lance could hear his roommate’s faint snoring through the wall as he changed into warm pajamas. He thought about putting on his facemask but decided against it when he saw the time: 3:30 AM. Ouch. His bed felt like a warm, toasted marshmallow when he sank into it. 

The image of the dumb she-wolf with a nose full of thorns flitted through his memory. He snickered and rolled over. Lethargy gripped his limbs, quickly followed by a dreamless sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

“Lance.”

Groaning loudly, Lance tugged a pillow over his head. He could feel Hunk’s annoyed glare, but that didn’t matter at - he opened his eyes a crack and stared at the blurry alarm clock - seven in the morning.

“Lance, I will eat all the bacon.”

Dammit. Hunk never made empty threats. Lance sat up, his head heavy and numb with sleep. He blinked in Hunk’s general direction and let a pitiful whine escape. “Why are you so meeeeean?”

Hunk sighed and helped Lance to his feet. “If you want me to make your breakfast, you have to wake up when I do.” Lance clung to him, determined to make the most of his giant teddy bear of a friend. He didn’t let go until Hunk led them into the small kitchen and sat him down on a stool.

He was mostly awake by the time Hunk pushed a stack of pancakes under his nose. He huffed appreciatively and dug in, slathering on more syrup than his mother would have approved of. Hunk grabbed a plate of his own, along with the platter of bacon, and sat down beside him. Lance snatched five strips of bacon and scarfed them down. He hadn’t caught anything last night, what with the wolf, so he craved protein more than anything at the moment.

Hunk stared at him, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of pancake and bacon. “How late did you stay up last night?” he asked.

The lie was casual, practiced. “Just a little after eleven.”

“Uh huh. Dude, the one night you get to sleep at a reasonable time and you choose to stay up?”

Lance ignored him. Hunk was the best roommate he’d ever had and, more importantly, 100% human. There was no way he could ever reveal the whole truth, as much as he wanted to sometimes. He had a feeling Hunk could handle it, but there were too many risks involved. Hunk might let it slip on accident, or worse, one of the Others would find out he knew and decide to take matters into their own hands.

Hunk finished up first and grabbed his backpack. His college was located in the considerably larger city of Altea, a good 45-minute commute, and his first class was at 9. Lance had never taken a class that started before 10:30. But then again he’d dropped out of college after two semesters, so maybe he wasn’t the best judge of academic fitness.

“See ya! Make sure you take out the garbage.” Hunk pointed a threatening finger at him before slipping out of the apartment.

Lance sighed and took out the trash before falling back into bed for another five hours of sleep.

* * *

 

The park was mostly empty by the time he arrived with a pencil and sketchpad in hand. Lance sat down on his favorite bench, the one under the old ash tree, and looked around. The spring leaves were just starting to mature, though still far from their darker summer greenery, and clumps of dandelions littered the grass in little patches of sunshine. The swings and slides in the play area were abandoned save for a young mother and her two toddlers. It was barely midday, so most kids were still in school.

Closing his eyes, he let his nose take over. Even as a human his senses were better than most, his sense of smell especially. He could smell two feral cats lurking downwind, and the bitter scent of coffee from the town’s only coffee shop intermingled with the sterile tang of the grocery store. He was pretty sure that a squirrel, lean and gamey, was perched above him in the ash. All these novel scents were overshadowed by the earthy freshness all around him, dampened by what he hoped was the last bit of March frost.

These were the small joys he lived for, the ones most humans missed. If only he could share with his friends what it felt like to run through the forest with no inhibitions or the rush of adrenaline that came from a mouthful of blood. Then again, he was one of the few Others who could experience normal human things like salt, or sunshine, so maybe he was just being greedy.

Lance opened his eyes and stared down at a small dandelion popping up between his feet. He opened his sketchbook and started to draw its outline as a warm-up sketch. The quiet scratch of pencil on paper soothed away the last bits of worry from last night.

Mostly. When a distinctly canine scent wafted toward him, he jerked in his seat before relaxing at the sight of the puppyish waddle and wagging tail of a friendly young Labrador. Madame Vox, a heavyset woman, held on to the other end of its leash, and she grinned when Lance scooted over and patted the bench beside him.  
  
“Good morning, Lance,” she said, her voice raspy with age. The Labrador licked at Lance’s hand and woofed softly to get his attention.  
  
“How are you, Madame Vox?” Lance asked, setting aside his sketchbook to rub both hands behind the dog’s ears. “Is this a new fella?” Madame Vox fostered puppies until they could be adopted, and every time she got a new one she brought it to Lance.  
  
She tapped its nose. “Yes, this is Casey. There’s a young couple in Altea who seem keen on adopting him by the end of the week.”  
  
Lance nodded and took up his sketchbook again while Madame Vox kept Casey occupied with a chew toy. He did his best to capture the excited near constant wiggle in the dog’s step, and the too-big paws he’d eventually grow into. Each dog was different, and Lance knew how important it was to Madame Vox to keep a bit of them with her even after they left for new homes. He’d suggested investing in a camera once, but she’d scoffed at the very mention of it.  
  
He carefully ripped out the page when he was done and handed it to her. Madame Vox held the portrait up to Casey, studied it, and shook her head approvingly. “Wonderful as always.” She tucked it into her purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill.  
  
“Madame Vox…”  
  
Her gnarled, cold hand grabbed his before he could pull away and she slammed the money into his palm. “You are giving me the gift of precious memories, Lance. What you do deserves more than bits of this ridiculous paper.”  
  
A bit of her glamour slipped and he saw the greyish stone skin of her hand mottled with veins of old magic. She quickly covered herself again and leaned back. Lance swallowed as the residue of her power washed over him. He was always taken aback by how old she was, how much she’d seen and lived through.  
  
Clearing her throat, Madame Vox changed the subject. “So, does that polite roommate of yours have any plans this weekend?”  
  
Lance bit back a smile. “Midterms are coming up, he’ll probably be studying.”  
  
Madame Vox pursed her lips, evidently displeased. “I appreciate his work ethic, but I also would not mind if he started courting my Shay sooner rather than later.”  
  
“I’m working on it, I promise.” He stood slowly, trying and failing to wipe a bit of the dampness from the back of his jeans. “See you later, Madame.”  
  
When he reached the edge of the park, he looked back just in time to see a flash of green before Madame Vox and Casey disappeared.  


* * *

  
  
Lunch consisted of two pork sliders from the bistro, a can of Dr. Pepper, half a bag of skittles and - because he was a responsible adult who made healthy choices - a small salad.  
  
His phone buzzed just as he’d finished, and he answered without thinking. “Sup?”  
  
_“Hey, mijo. How are you?”_  
  
He straightened in his seat, despite the fact no one could see him in the deli booth. “Hey, mamá. I’m doing great.”  
  
_“How’s work? Did you get in touch with that advertising agency? What was it? Drazan… something?”_  
  
“Uh, yeah…” No, he hadn’t.  
  
“And?”  
  
Lance took the time to gather all of his wrappers onto the tray before answering. “Well, I wasn’t exactly what they were looking for, and they didn’t seem like a good fit for me anyway, so…”  
  
Her sigh crossed two state borders and pierced his conscience. _“Mijo, I worry about you.”_  
  
“Mom, I’m fine,” he muttered, his phone trapped between his ear and his shoulder as he made for the garbage can.  
  
_“You’re a talented artist, any agency would be lucky to have you.”_  
  
“Working freelance isn’t so bad either,” he countered.  
  
_“If it was your full-time job, maybe. I don’t want you working in a bar for the rest of your life.”_  
  
A familiar swell of frustration rose up in his throat, cut off by a quick snap of his jaws. Not for the first time, Lance wondered if he should tell her exactly what he did most nights. Unlike Hunk, she’d understand the situation perfectly. Then again, she’d only be more curious… and there was the contract to consider.  
  
He weaved past the other customers and headed for the exit. “Working in that bar pays better than both of Hunk’s jobs combined.” Stepping into the afternoon sunlight, he held the door open for a small family entering the restaurant.  
  
His mother huffed and Lance could see her planting a hand on her hip as clearly as if she was standing in front of time. _“It’s not about the money, Lance,”_ she growled. A hint of cold desert nights seeped into her voice, raising the hackles on the back of his neck.  
  
He wasn’t a part of her pack anymore.  
  
“Mamá-”  
  
A distant clatter and the loud voices of his nephews cut off his sentence - just as well, he had no idea what he would have said anyway. His mother clucked her tongue. _“Not again. Alright, I’ll talk to you later, mijo. I love you.”_  
  
He managed to get a quick “Love you too, mom,” in before the line went dead.

* * *

  
Hunk staggered back into their apartment just past seven thirty. He groaned and flopped onto the beat-up couch that took up most of their small living room. Lance leaned over the back of the couch and patted his head.  
  
“What did Iverson do now?”  
  
Hunk lifted his chin just enough to be somewhat understood. “Two papers. Who assigns two papers in two weeks?”  
  
“A sadist.” Lance wandered toward the kitchen. “Pizza?”  
  
Groaning his assent, Hunk rolled off the couch and fell to the floor. Lance chuckled and pulled a frozen pizza from the fridge. When Hunk got like this, he didn’t have the energy to complain about Lance’s lazy meals.  
  
Lance kept an eye on the clock while the pizza cooked. He’d offer to help with the papers, but his shift started at 8:30 on the dot, and his boss wasn’t one for tardiness.  
  
The smell of melting cheese and cheap pepperoni seemed to be enough to get Hunk back on his feet. He sniffed in faint disgust but accepted a plate. “At least your other professors are reasonable people,” Lance pointed out, stuffing a slice into his mouth. “Want me to help you edit once you’ve got a first draft?”  
  
Hunk took the time to chew and swallow first. “I’d appreciate it. Don’t you need to get going, though?”  
  
Already eight. Lance grabbed his jacket from the counter and went hunting for his wallet and backpack. “See ya later. Good luck!”  
  
Hunk gave a halfhearted wave.

* * *

  
  
Arus, being the small town that it was, only had one of everything. One grocery store, one gas station, one bank, one post office, and one bar. It was an old wooden building, barely two stories, with a faded sign proudly proclaiming it as “The Tavern”. Lance bounced up the steps and shoved the door open with his shoulder, blinking rapidly until his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light.  
  
There were already several customers, most of them gathered around the pool table in the corner. One man was sitting by himself in a booth, wrapped up in a thick jacket and watching the players with hungry, red-rimmed eyes. He caught Lance staring and grimaced.  
  
Lance shook his head and made for his employer who was rearranging some scattered bar stools. He grinned at Lance’s approach. “Good to see you, lad. I sorely missed you last night.”  
  
A twinge of worry ran up Lance’s spine. “Was it a bad night, Coran?”  
  
Fiddling with his bushy orange mustache, Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe nodded sagely. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, mind you, but you would’ve had it sorted in a jiffy.” He clapped his hands together. “Go see if Plaxum needs any help in the kitchen, will you?”  
  
Lance gestured to the man in the booth and raised an eyebrow.  
  
“He knows the rules.”  
  
Satisfied, Lance ducked into the kitchen. It was as old-fashioned as everything else in the building, complete with a large fireplace and some sort of stew bubbling in a pot over the flames. Plaxum was bent over the pot, her brow furrowed in concentration as she waved a hand over the steam. After a few seconds, a puff of purple smoke erupted from the stew and she jumped back.  
  
“Was that supposed to happen?” Lance asked.  
  
Plaxum eyed him in annoyance. “Yes, you jerk,” she groused, taking a moment to retie her long ponytails. “Where were you last night?”  
  
Lance shrugged. “It was my night off.” As per his contract, he got a night off every two weeks whether he liked it or not.  
  
“Yeah, well, we needed all hands on deck yesterday.” Plaxum brushed by him and pulled out a knife and cutting board.  
  
“So I heard,” Lance sighed, leaning against the counter. “Need any help, Plax?”  
  
“Not from you. No, wait, get me a bag of potatoes from the pantry then get out of here.”  
  
He obliged, and she gave him a cheerful smile in return. Plaxum wasn’t the sort of person to hold a grudge for too long.  
  
By the time nine o'clock rolled around, he’d swept the floor, brought out more chairs from the storage room, served some drinks - including a murky red concoction to the man in the booth -, and fetched Coran’s gloves (he always forgot them in his office). With a nod from Coran, Lance slipped back into the kitchen, past Plaxum who was grinding something with a mortar and pestle and climbed up a narrow staircase hidden behind a thick curtain.  
  
The second floor was only half a large as the main floor and consisted of three rooms. A makeshift living room dominated most of the space, and two doors on either side led off to two bedrooms. The door to Coran’s room was covered in runes, most of which were glowing softly. Lance ignored it in favor of pressing his ear to the other door.  
  
Nothing, not even the slightest rustle.  
  
He settled into a comfy armchair and pulled out his computer. Most of his job description involved sitting and waiting, so he passed the time by working on his commissions. Normally he’d listen to tunes, but bitter experience had taught him that not being able to hear the first warning signs could turn a quiet night into a bad one real quick.  
  
The rumble of voices from below steadily got louder as the night progressed. Even if The Tavern wasn’t the only pub in town, Lance was sure it would still be just as popular. Coran worked hard to make sure his customers had a good time in his establishment.  
  
A familiar halfhearted tug of magic in his gut let him know when it was 11:30. All the human patrons were currently being gripped by a sudden, inexplicable urge to head home. When midnight rolled around, The Tavern would be free of humans and Coran’s Other customers could remove their disguises.  
  
Lance had just finished one of his pieces when a low moan from the other room had him rushing for the door. He listened, barely breathing, as mattress springs creaked wildly for a moment. An uneasy silence followed, leaving him unsure whether he should risk opening the door or not. Five tense minutes passed, and Lance slowly backed away from the door. Maybe he should talk to Coran about what had happened last night.  
  
Even without their glamours, Lance recognized most of the bar’s occupants. There was the usual group of minor fey clustered by the old jukebox in the corner, bobbing their heads in time to the music. He circumnavigated two goblin brothers who were engaged in their nightly drinking contest (ten shots in and neither slowing down) and a couple of dwarves waved at him before turning back to their cards. Coran was behind the bar, serving up drinks to a rowdy bunch of pixies.  
  
Lance tried to squeeze past them, being careful not to touch their dragonfly-like wings, and nearly knocked over a smaller woman with wild brown hair in the process. “Whoa! I-”  
  
She glowered up at him with golden-brown eyes and scoffed. He caught a whiff of pine and earth before she turned her back on him and slipped away.  
  
A slim yellow arm wrapped around his shoulder. “Hey, Lance. Where have you been?”  
  
Lance gently shrugged the arm away. “Hi, Nyma.”  
  
The beautiful sprite gave him a coquettish smile. “I missed you last night.”  
  
He batted his eyelashes playfully. “Awww. Sorry, I was a little… busy.”  
  
A couple pixies overheard and crowded in. “Ooh, did Lancey get into some mischief last night?” one of them tittered.  
  
He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Hey, believe it or not, I didn’t start it.”  
  
“What happened?” Nyma asked, smoothing out her skirt.  
  
Lance glanced over at Coran. The older man was still preoccupied, so he turned his attention back to Nyma. “Some dumb werewolf tried to horn in on my territory,” he answered, giving a lazy shrug. “I made sure she-”  
  
_“You!”_  
  
He caught a glimpse of furious golden-brown eyes before a clawed hand grabbed the front of his shirt and flung him towards the nearest wall.


	3. Chapter 3

Funny thing about getting bashed against a wall - sometimes pain isn’t the first thing you notice. For a solid two seconds, Lance heard the panicked gasps and screams of the other patrons before fire ignited in the back of his skull. He crumpled to the floor and clutched his head, wincing as it traveled down his spine.

_“You jackass!”_

He looked up, trying to get the dancing shapes and too-bright lights to settle into cohesion. The pixies had drawn away, parting like the Red Sea for the golden-eyed woman. She glared down at him, teeth bared in a snarl. Her white tank top had rucked up a bit, revealing scratches and cuts on her stomach and arms. Lance forced his jaw to relax and took a deep breath through his nose.

Wolf.

He staggered to his feet in a fit of instinct, glad he was taller than her right now. Coyotes couldn’t afford to be weak around wolves. “The hell are you doing here?” he snapped.

The she-wolf growled and sank into a crouch. Her arms, thin and wiry, rippled with muscle. Even in her petite human form, she was the biggest physical threat in the room and everyone knew it.

Then Coran was there. He didn’t push through the crowd or jump over the bar, he was just there. He stood with his back to Lance, forcing himself into the wolf’s space. Lance saw her clawed hands flex in frustration. “I don’t tolerate roughhousing in my tavern, especially with one of my employees. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave for the night, miss.” Coran’s voice, low and measured, left no room for argument. Neither did the swell of fey magic that radiated from him.

She growled again, more put out than angry. Everyone watched as the claws retracted, leaving behind blunt nails that had obviously been chewed on.

“Fine.”

Patrons flinched away as the irate werewolf snatched her jacket from a bar stool and stomped toward the exit. As she shoved her arms into the sleeves, Lance caught a glimpse of something black and green against her pale shoulder.

She opened the door, a rush of wind ruffling her short brown hair, and turned to stare at him. Her irises had softened from their harsh gold to something like hazel mixed with honey. Lance refused to look away, ignoring common sense and his mother’s constant warnings. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to keep her angry, wanted to keep her on her toes so she couldn’t-

Ah. There it was. That curved smirk of a stronger predator. The she-wolf shook her head and slipped out into the night.

A buzz of whispers filled The Tavern as soon as the door swung shut. The thin, tight balloon in Lance’s chest deflated and he leaned against the back of a nearby chair. His throbbing head returned to the forefront of his thoughts with a vengeance, accompanied by a stiff back and aching shoulders. Nyma hurried over and placed a hand on the back of his neck. A cool, numbing sensation ran up and down his spine.

“You weren’t kidding about bein’ busy,” she murmured.

He chuckled, breathy and high-pitched. “No, I was not.”

“Who is she?” a pixie demanded, looking around at her friends. All of them shook their heads or shrugged.

“Are there more?”

“Weres always travel in packs.”

“Are they going to stay?”

Coran held up a hand and raised his voice. “I apologize for the disturbance, ladies and gents. Drinks are half-off for the next fifteen minutes!”

A loud cheer ran through The Tavern and Others crowded around the bar. Coran waved for Rolo, the assistant barkeep, to take his place before hooking an arm around Lance’s shoulder and pulling him toward the kitchen.

Plaxum met them at the door. “What happened?”

“Bit of a scuffle. Get us some frozen peas wrapped in a towel, will you?” Coran replied, cheerful as ever as he directed Lance to the hidden stairs and made him sit on the lowest step. Plaxum eyed Lance before heading for the ancient refrigerator.

“Sorry, Coran-” Lance began, only to be stopped by Coran’s wagging finger.

“None of that, you didn’t start the fight.” He crouched down so he was eye level with Lance. “I don’t suppose you could provide some context, though?”

Plaxum returned with a bag of frozen peas and a towel, and Lance pressed it to the goose egg on his skull. He recounted the events of the previous night in detail, hoping Coran could find the pieces of the puzzle he was missing. Coran’s expression grew thoughtful as Lance finished and he stroked his mustache contemplatively.

“Well, I haven’t heard any news about a pack moving into town, so I think you’re right about her being on her own,” he said.

Lance breathed out a long, slow sigh and some of the nervous energy gathered in his stomach unraveled. “I hope so. I like it here.”

Coran looked at him in surprise.

“Wolves kill coyotes if they catch ‘em in their territory. If a Were pack decides to move in, I’d have to move out.” Shrugging, Lance let the soggy towel slip from his fingers and fall onto the step behind him. Both of his parents had a dozen stories each about the encounters their families had had with Were packs. Most ended with near escapes, some were bloody.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that. You’re rather hard to replace,” Coran murmured.

Fresh anxiety sucked at his lungs and sent Lance scrambling to his feet. “Son of a-!”

He pounded up the stairs two at a time and rushed to the second door. He pressed an ear to it and listened hard.

Nothing.

“What happened? Is it…?” Coran trailed off, creeping up to join him.

Lance shook his head and rocked back on his heels. “Earlier, I heard- …That’s why I came downstairs. I wanted to ask you what happened last night.”

Coran frowned. “Nothing too out of the ordinary for a bad night. It just seemed… more intense.”

That would explain tonight. Sometimes the anxiety from bad nights trailed into the following days. He was just glad that the commotion downstairs hadn’t exacerbated it.

“You two take it easy. I need to get back to work before Rolo gives Nyma another free drink.” Coran clapped him on the shoulder and grinned before skipping down the stairs.

Lance settled back in the armchair but didn’t reach for his computer, opting to rest his elbows on his knees and stare at the wall. Unease settled into his throat and chest, making it hard to breathe.

Where was the she-wolf now? Was she waiting to jump him as soon as he left the bar? He wouldn’t put it past a Were. They were as infamous for their tempers as they were for their near invulnerability.

What if she was scouting out the area for her pack? Arus was an ideal location for Others. Small, secluded, tucked up against a nature reserve. With a small human population and lack of any… unsavory elements in the Other Community, a pack of Weres could fit in with little difficulty. Hundreds had integrated themselves into communities over the past few centuries, sliding from myth and legend to the mundane thanks to the increased influence of level-headed alpha wolves - the ones who avoided monster hunters by not causing a fuss, choosing to grow their packs through families and children rather than brutal attacks during the full moon.

Of course, their policy of not harming humans didn’t apply to Lance.

He kicked at the coffee table with halfhearted frustration. He didn’t want to leave Arus. This life he’d built for himself, simple and uninspiring as it was, was _his_. No one told him what to do or how to live. He was beholden to no one - except Hunk, to whom he owed half the monthly rent. As the only Shifter in town, he didn’t have to worry about competing with Others for status.

Lance sat up straight and jutted out his chin. This was _his_ territory, _his_ home, and he would not let anyone take that from him. Especially not some muscle head wolf who couldn’t take a joke.

* * *

 

Four o'clock rolled around faster than he expected even with the hours of constant brooding. He’d fallen into a semi-stupor by then, brought on by the exhaustion that followed an adrenaline rush, and Plaxum had to shake him awake and tell him it was closing time. Lance checked the door one last time (nothing) and shuffled down the stairs.

Plaxum walked him to the door and handed him his share of the night’s tips. She looked him over with a wry smile. “Think you’ll be okay?”

Lance shot two finger guns at her, then winced when his back protested. Dumb werewolf super strength. “I’ll be just fine once I get home and take a bath.”

She groaned and stretched. “Dang. That sounds pretty good right about now. I think I’ll do that too.” She walked past him and headed for her car. “G'night!”

Lance lingered on the porch, peering out into the street. The moon above was just starting to wane, so the road was bathed in natural light. Still, there were plenty of shadows for an enterprising hunter to hide in. He stiffed the air, but the overwhelming scent of alcohol and fey magic obscured almost everything else. A cool breeze ruffled at his jacket and he folded his arms across his chest. This wouldn’t be a problem if he had a car of his own, but The Tavern was only a ten-minute walk from the condo so he’d never felt the need to buy one. He usually borrowed Hunk’s if he needed to travel out of town.

Taking a deep breath, he jumped down the stairs and started running. Speed was the one thing he had going in his favor, even in his human form. He tried his best to listen for anything sneaking up on him, but with the wind whistling past only served to deafen his ears and ramp up his anxiety.

Nothing jumped out at him for the first few blocks, so he paused at a well-lighted street corner to catch his breath.

Stupid werewolf, making him feel unsafe in his own town.

A soft hiss to his left sent him bolting. Lance had the wherewithal to look over his shoulder before he turned the corner, and he saw the man with the red eyes peering at him from a secluded alley.

Okay. So there might be a _few_ unsavory Others in Arus.

He reached his apartment in four minutes - a new record - and trudged up the stairs with soft groans. Hands shaking the tiniest bit, he unlocked the door and tip-toed inside before locking it again, turning the deadbolt with a decisive thunk. Hunk had fallen asleep on the couch, his arm dangling over the side. Lance carefully tugged his laptop out from under his arm and plugged it into a wall charger before spreading a blanket over him.

The bath, when he finally got around to it, was a little slice of heaven. He practically wept when the hot water lapped at his shoulders, loosening the knots built up there. Half an hour of steam and bubbles left him pruny and refreshed. Lance got out of the tub before the water got too tepid and started toweling himself off. A flash of purple out of the corner of his eye made him pause and wipe condensation from the mirror, only to wince and twist for a better look.

His back was mottled with bruises, most of them angry purples and blues.  

Coyote: 1, Wolf: 1

* * *

 

Lance slept through most of the next day, even ignoring Hunk’s threats and missing breakfast. When he did emerge from his room in the late afternoon, hobbling and bent over like an old man, he nuked a plate of leftover lasagna and huddled on the couch to rewatch The Breakfast Club and sulk. The past two days definitely warranted some sulking.

Hunk returned at six, his face speckled with flour and smelling of pastries. On the days he didn’t have class, he worked a part-time job at the (singular) local bakery.

Hunk glanced at him and frowned. “You look awful.”

Lance poked his head out of the blanket burrito he’d created. “You smell amazing.”

Rolling his eyes at what he thought was an exaggeration, Hunk hung up his jacket with deliberate slowness. “Bad news, I didn’t get very far on my papers. Good news, Sal finally hired a new gal so I might have some extra time on my hands.”

“Is she hot?” Lance asked, an automatic reaction.

Hunk snorted. “I don’t think you’re her type.”

Lance rolled onto the floor and stood with a dramatic flourish of his blankets. “I am everyone’s type. What did Sal-…?”

A new scent weaved its way toward him, buoyed by warm vanilla and brown sugar. Lance shuffled closer to Hunk, ignoring his friend’s raised eyebrow as he leaned in and sniffed.

Wolf.


	4. Chapter 4

“I’m pretty sure this much caffeine is bad for you.”

Lance ignored the comment and the new cup placed in front of him, keeping his eyes on the bakery just across the street. The front of the bakery was dominated by two large windows on either side of the door and allowed him to see nearly everything in the front of the shop. His view of the counter was currently blocked by a group of customers, and he bit his lip impatiently as he waited for them to leave. 

A _thwap_ on the side of his head from a dirty towel finally made him turn and glare up at the barista. 

Nadia Rizavi grinned back, her eyeteeth winking in the dim cafe lighting. “And I’m pretty sure stalking is illegal,” she continued, slinging the towel over her shoulder. 

Lance grabbed his coffee cup and slammed back half of it in one go. “It’s called reconnaissance,” he muttered. He looked back just in time to see the customers exiting the bakery, the she wolf’s silhouette now visible next to the cash register. She crouched over the counter, maybe she was looking at her phone? 

“Dude, since when have you ever staked out a girl before you asked her out?” Rizavi glanced around, but aside from Lance there was no one else in the coffee shop in this weird mid-morning hour, so she sat down across from him, her chair squealing against cheap linoleum. “Literally the first thing you said to _me_ was ‘Can I get your number? Because I like you a latte’ when all I did was ask for your order.” 

Tearing his eyes away again, Lance aimed two finger guns at her. “It got me a date, though.” 

“ _One_ date.” 

“You loved the laser tag park.” 

Rizavi rolled her eyes, her smile turning soft. It tugged at Lance’s heart, too reminiscent of his sister’s annoyed fondness whenever he got up to his antics. Veronica would probably be giving him the same 'what-are-you-doing-dweeb’ stare if she were here now… Or grabbing him by the collar and running as far away from the Were as she could. She was always one to err on the side of caution. 

“So what’s up?”

Lance shrugged. The cafe interior was made up of dark wood and shaded booths, perfect for tucking into and disappearing for an hour. It was literally the best and most convenient place for him to watch the Were for a few hours without her noticing. 

“She’s… Hunk’s new coworker,” he finally replied. 

Rizavi frowned and peered through the window, shading her eyes for a better view. “Ah, is she hitting on him already?” She turned back to him with a determined jut of her chin. “Because we both know Shay already has dibs on him.” 

A snort choked its way out of his throat and stung the back of his nose. “Remind me again why we only went on one date?” 

“Nice try, Casanova.” Rizavi slowly dragged herself to her feet. “My shift’s nearly over. Have fun being creepy.” 

Lance eyed the counter behind her and smiled, sliding both hands beneath the table. He let his magic swell in his rib cage for a second before saying, “Have fun with your empty tip jar.” 

Blinking, Rizavi spun on her heel and ran to the counter. She grabbed the oversized pink ceramic mug that always sat by the cash register and peered inside. Her frown turned into a full-blown scowl and she glared bloody murder in his direction. 

Laughing, Lance held up both hands in surrender, one of them clutching a wad of bills. Rizavi snatched them back, muttering “You always do that!” before flicking him in the forehead and stomping away. 

“Love you too!” 

She gave him the finger. 

He tried to turn his attention back to the bakery, but that brief surge of magic wasn’t sitting well with all the caffeine in his blood. His eyes felt too tired to focus, and yet he was too wired to relax. He downed the rest of his coffee and shuddered. This was probably pointless; the Were wasn’t going to do anything suspicious in broad daylight. 

Lance leaned forward until he was sprawled across the small coffee table, his head hidden in the crook of his arm. He heard Rizavi clock out and the new barista take over, the cash register dinging as a new customer placed their order. The bitter coffee scent that permeated the small cafe was cut through with low undertones of creamer and caramel syrup. Peeking outside again, Lance saw the Were slide away from the counter and into the back room of the bakery, only to return with a tray two seconds later. 

There really wasn’t anything to be gained by this stake-out, he mused. He was too far away to discern anything about her, but he certainly wasn’t going to get any closer. He’d never let she-wolf get as close to him as she had last night…

A pang of leftover fear twinged in his chest and he let his eyes fall shut once more. He should go home and take a nap so he’d be ready for work tonight… 

* * *

 

“Hey, sleepyhead.” 

In his barely-awake state, he just managed to notice a small hand shaking his shoulder before coming to rest on his arm with a light squeeze. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes with a clumsy effort. “Wha-?” he whined, wiping a bit of drool from his chin. 

A light chuckle, with a hint of something a bit deeper if one could coax it out. Wilder.  

Wolf. 

His eyes flew open, taking in the scene at a glance. The cafe was quickly filling with customers, both baristas occupied with a growing line. Outside, the shadows had shrunk into slits with the onset of midday. Seated across from him, a paper bag and a caramel cappuccino between them, the Were grinned. 

A punched out gasp wheezed out of him, his muscles locking in place for a split second before he tried to get away. Her hand tightened around his arm and she gently - oh, so gently - pulled him back down before he could even push back his seat. Lance glanced down and didn’t miss the hint of claw peeking out beneath her ragged fingernails. Heart pounding in his ears, he forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on the table and his body language non-threatening. 

_Only stupid coyotes sleep near wolf dens._

“So… what’s your problem?” 

He glared at her, just for a moment. She leaned forward and took a long sniff. Her eyes were firmly hazel, not a hint of wolf gold to be seen. “With me, I mean,” she continued as if the question needed clarifying. 

“I dunno, maybe because you threw me halfway across the room?” Lance muttered. 

She narrowed her eyes. “You led me into a briar patch!” 

“You _chose_ to chase after me.” 

“You bit my nose!” 

A hint of a snarl rattled his throat. “You’re in _my territory!”  
_

She tilted her head back, using the strange perspective to make it seem as if she was looking down at him and not the other way around.

“Yeah, well, you better get used to it,” she finally said, releasing her hold on his arm. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

A stone settled somewhere deep in Lance’s core, heavy and resigned. He opened and closed his mouth several times before slumping back in his seat. “So… when can I expect your pack to rip me to pieces?” he croaked out. 

The she-wolf blinking in surprise. “I- We don’t-…” She shook her head. “I’m currently on my own, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon. So you’re just stuck with little old me.” 

“Still one too many if you ask me.”

She ignored that comment and leaned in close again, studying him intently. “What _are_ you?” Her eyes gleamed with curiosity and she sniffed again. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” 

“Again, _my territory_. Who are _you?_ ” 

“Oh.” She grinned. “I’m Pidge.” 

“Pidge?” Lance scoffed

A hint of gold streaked across her irises. “Yeah, Pidge,” she repeated, her voice deepening ever so slightly. “Pidge Gunderson, lone wolf.” 

Lance watched her pull a chocolate doughnut out of the paper bag and take a large bite. His magic pressed against his fingertips, begging him to disappear, but there were too many human witnesses around to even consider the idea. 

“How did you know I was here?” he asked.

Pidge laughed around a mouthful of doughnut. “Your scent was all over Hunk yesterday, and today I followed your trail when I left the bakery for my lunch break.” She paused mid-bite. “How much does Hunk know about…?” 

“Nothing,” Lance whispered, his throat tight with panic again. 

“Right.” Pidge nodded and continued eating. “Don’t worry, I know the rules.” 

An awkward silence slumped between them as Pidge finished her first donut and licked her fingers before moving on to the second one. Every so often her eyes flickered up to Lance’s, languid and curious. It twisted and prodded at him until he was practically vibrating in his seat. Nothing about her spoke of any intent to harm, but they both knew better. 

“Are you ever going to answer my question?” 

“What?” 

“What are you?” 

So proprietary, as if she had a right to him. 

Lance’s fingers curled into fists on reflex. He shook his head. “Nope. Not doing this. Not with you.”

She twisted in her seat and frowned. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she hissed, sounding more frustrated than anything. “-or run you out of your territory. I just want-” 

He snarled. “I. Don’t. _Care!_ ” A passing couple stared at them before hurrying by. Ducking down a bit, he dared to lean in close to her face. “I don’t care why you’re here, I don’t care what you do, just _stay away from me_ , _wolf_.” 

As close as he was, he caught the faintest whiff of distress before she’d stood up, forcing him back. Her scent and the slightest trembling of her eyebrows left him breathless. Memories of pack huddles and the urge to comfort welled up. He suppressed the instinct as soon as it came. He had no intention of becoming Pack with this intruder. 

Her chair flew back with a clatter as she jerked to her feet. She swept past him, muttering a quick, needle-sharp, “ _Fine._ ” 

* * *

 

“You look terrible,” Hunk commented, sparing Lance a quick glance as he passed by their living room on the way to the kitchen. 

Lance whined and smooshed his face deeper into the couch cushion.

Coyote: 1, Wolf: 2


	5. Chapter 5

He checked the clock again.

5:59 AM. Hunk would be up in one minute.

Lance squirmed and kicked at his blankets until his legs were free, then pressed a palm flat against the cool plaster of the wall. He felt overheated and wrung out. No need to look in a mirror to know there were bags under his eyes.

Every bump in the night sent him reaching for the knife tucked in his drawer. Memories of his Abuelita’s stories about the old days haunted him, the ones that sent shivers down his spine not because they were scary, but because they were true. Most of the Others living in the Americas had been wiped out hundreds of years ago when the Fey, Beasts, and Undead of the Old World had joined forces with humans (albeit unknown to them) to exterminate the native population. Coyotes had survived due to their inherent adaptability, but even so… Lance knew some of the Others looked on him as nothing more than an annoyance, to be shoved aside or gotten rid of.

Twice he’d called his mother before hanging up at the last second. He already knew what she’d say if he told her. _“Come home where it’s safe.”_

6:00 AM. He could hear Hunk’s alarm clock through the wall. A low whine escaped as he flung a pillow against the wall.

* * *

 

Of course that night was a bad night.

Lance tried not to be bitter, he reminded himself over and over that this wasn’t malicious, or even an attempt to annoy him. Even the badly bruised hip (he’d been flung to the floor) came from a primal urge towards self-preservation, one he’d become all too acquainted with these last few days.

Eventually, everything was settled and he closed the door with a grateful sigh before slumping back into his armchair. Maybe the pain in his hip would keep him from dozing off again.

* * *

 

Madame Vox’s Shoppe of Curiosities was by far Lance’s favorite tourist trap. Aside from the plethora of wind chimes hanging from the rafters that tinkled at the slightest provocation, the smell of incense that perfumed the air while never becoming cloying, the displays of crystals that shimmered like a set of rainbows, the packs of tarot cards, the wall of masks, the shelf full of beeswax products (Lance loved the lip balm), the racks of scarves and honest-to-goodness capes and cloaks, the Arus Nature Park keychains and fridge magnets, the dreamcatchers, the giant crystal ball tucked in the corner, the jewelry made from real flowers trapped in resin, the misty atmosphere a la the smoke machine hidden under the counter… aside from all of _that,_ he loved how honest it was.

Those crystals? Infused with magic to soothe or heal as prescribed. The tarot cards? Accurate predictors of the future and mediators of the past. For $10 Madame Vox would peer into the crystal ball and answer one question with frightening accuracy. And the keychains? They were just fun to look at. One of them even had a coyote on it.

The Shoppe was also blessedly quiet. Even at the height of tourist season customers felt the press of realness on their shoulders and lowered their voices to a whisper when they entered. Lance needed the quietude after a week of anxiety buzzing through his veins, and he wanted to talk to Madame Vox. Out of everyone he’d ever met, with the possible exception of Coran, she was the steadiest person he knew.

He blinked and squinted as he entered. Even with heightened senses, he had trouble peering through the shadows brought on by musty velvet curtains covering the front windows. Two yellow eyes gleamed at him from behind the cash register - an antique, clunky thing Hunk adored and wanted to examine every time he visited - before winking out. “Lance?”

Lance smiled and sidestepped a case of glass eyeballs. “Hey, Shay. How’s it going?”

Shay rested her hands on her hips. “Not much. Tourist season’s still a couple months away.” She eyed Lance, the yellow glint in her gaze faded and covered by her glamour. Her chosen appearance was that of a tall, broad-shouldered girl with dark skin and darker hair cropped at her ears. Lance was never sure how to describe her eyes, “honey-colored” Hunk would say with a sigh, but he had to disagree. If anything, the she-wolf’s eyes were more like honey, but only when-

“How about you?”

He shook his head. “Horrible. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in forever. Look at the bags under my eyes.” He tugged at them for emphasis and flopped on the counter. He heard her chuckle and felt a large hand pat his head.

“Poor coyote. We have some essential oils that might help. We’ll even sell it along with a diffuser for the low price of $99.99.”

“How do you sleep at night?”

“Better than you.”

Lance whined and pressed a hand to his heart. “Ouch. How much does it cost to ask your grandma for advice?”

“Oh, well, Grandmother-”

Something heavy dropped to the floor with a muffled thump and muttered curses before Rax, Shay’s older brother, emerged from behind a beaded curtain that led to the backroom. Like his sister, he was tall and burly, but he lacked the gentle demeanor that instantly recommended Shay as a good friend to have.

Rax shot him a distrustful glare. “Either buy something or stop loitering, coyote,” he grunted, reaching behind the curtain to pick up a fallen box and haul it to the counter. “We have work to do.”

Shay patted Lance’s head again. “Don’t mind Rax, Lance. He’s grumpy today.”

Lance winked. “Guess you could say he’s in a ‘fey’ mood, huh?”

Shay, bless her heart, actually laughed. Her brother shot him a dirty look before pointedly ignoring him and turning to Shay. “The shipment of dried wolfsbane finally came in,” he gestured to the box, “where does Grandmother want it?”

“It’s a special order, I’ll just keep it under the counter until…” Shay paused and glanced at Lance. “…he comes by to pick it up. It’s already paid in advance.”

Lance had enough tact to pretend to browse through the keychains again. The Shoppe, much like The Tavern, was in many ways a cover. Yes, they catered to humans, but they also provided services for the Other community - mainly those of the potion making and spell casting variety. He knew better than to pry into the business of Madame Vox’s more secretive clientele.

A puff of hot air whooshed into the Shoppe as the door opened from behind. With it wafted old magic, round and smooth like stones washed clean by a river. Shay and Rax looked up, their eyes flashing. Without looking behind him, Lance knew Madame Vox’s eyes were also glowing gold. Her large, rough, _warm_ hand landed on his shoulder and she pulled him in for a sideways hug. “Hello, Lance. What brings you here?”

Lance squeezed her back before pulling away. “I need your advice, Madame Vox. I’ve got a… pest control problem.”

“Oh?” Madame Vox set a paper bag on the counter and rumbled something to Rax in a decidedly inhuman language. Rax nodded and tucked the bag under his arm before disappearing into the back room.

“Yeah, I don’t know if you know, but there’s a new Shifter in town and she-”

Madame Vox scoffed, _scoffed._ “The wolf? I’ve met her, she’s a nice girl.”

“Nice?!”

“Yes, silly coyote.” Madame Vox shook a finger under his nose. “Didn’t your mother tell you not to judge a book by its cover?”

“No, actually. She told me Weres are the worst and has plenty of stories to back it up.”

Madame Vox waved his statement away and shuffled behind the counter, pulling out a feather duster as she did so. “Bah. Such prejudice is beneath you, Lance. Try talking to the girl.”

Lance threw his hands into the air. “I have!” he hissed, barely managing to control his voice. _Never argue with the fey in their den, Lance._ “Wait… you’ve met her?”

Shay nodded. “She came by the day after she moved here and bought some crystals.”

“What for?” was on the tip of his tongue, but Lance bit it back. He knew most of the crystals Madame Vox kept were for healing, but he wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t care.

Shaking his head, he looked around the Shoppe. “Well, do you at least have any silver, or- ow!” He clutched his smarting knuckles and skittered out of reach before Madame Vox could hit him with the feather duster again.

“Don’t be a fool about this, Lance. There’s enough room in this town for the both of you."  

Lance swallowed back his anger, though he couldn’t stop the scowl creeping over his brow. A part of his brain wanted to be petulant, greedy. He didn’t want to share, especially not with something that would surely take more than he was willing to give.

Madame Vox leaned in, her eyes narrowing. "Trouble sleeping?”

Lance nodded.

“Stress?”

His eyes found the floor, too embarrassed to speak.

“Silly, _territorial…_ ” Madame Vox opened a drawer underneath the counter and started rummaging through it. “Shay, bring me some of that passionflower tea I made last week,” she grunted. Shay nodded and slipped behind the beaded curtain, narrowly dodging a ball of green and red feathers that flew up from the drawer.

Lance shuffled toward the door. “Madame Vox, you don’t need to-”

“Shush.” She straightened and dropped three stones onto the counter. Lance leaned in for a closer look despite himself. They’d been cut into perfect ovals, each the size of his thumb, and even in the shadowy Shoppe, they were brilliantly white. He could already feel the magic infused in them soothing the tightness in his chest and shoulders. Madame Vox grabbed the packet of tea from Shay and pushed it along with the stones toward him.

“Place these moonstones under your pillow and drink the tea before bed.”

Lance reached for his wallet, his mouth still twisted into a frown. He still felt like the main problem was being ignored. _(Moonstones, really?)_

“By the way,” Madame Vox tapped his hand and gestured to Shay, who was busy returning the box of tea leaves. “About what we discussed earlier…?”

Lance smirked, a bit of his old confidence returning. “Don’t worry, I’m working on it.”

* * *

 

“When are you gonna be a man and ask Shay out on a date?”

Hunk spluttered and nearly dropped the bag of rice he was holding. Lance averted disaster by grabbing it and placing it safely in the cart.

“Dude,” Hunk wheezed, glaring at him.

Lance shrugged. “What?”

“That’s just- we’re not-”

“Only because you haven’t asked.”

Hunk frowned and kept his eyes fixed on the grocery list. “We need milk.”

Lance leaned over the cart and snatched the list away. “Midsummer’s Eve is coming up. Ask her to the dance.”

“I thought you said that dance was lame,” Hunk huffed, crossing his arms.

More like extremely dangerous for humans without a sufficient chaperone, but Hunk didn’t need to know that. Besides, if he was with Shay he’d be safer than almost anyone else there.

Lance groaned loudly, causing the middle-aged woman passing by them to look at him with severe disapproval. “It’s a start. You two have been tip-toeing around each other for _months._ For the love of everyone who’s had to put up with this nonsense, take the initiative.”

A ruddy blush spread across Hunk’s upper nose and cheeks. “I dunno, man. Are you sure Shay’s interested in me-” Lance practically launched himself at Hunk, causing the cart to wobble dangerously and Hunk to yelp as Lance shook his shoulders.

“YES.”

Hunk pried him off and caught the cart before it tipped over completely. “Dude, okay, _okay_. I’ll ask. Geez. Go get the milk.”

Satisfied, Lance slipped out of the grain aisle and headed for the dairy section. The grocery store was small, so it didn’t take long to find the milk. He lugged out a cartoon and let his eyes wander to the ice cream. Hunk wouldn’t complain too much if Lance promised to split the cost. What to choose, though? Hunk was fond of Rocky Road, but Lance was partial to strawberry himself. Both?

Both.

As he opened the glass case, a small hand shot out and grabbed the last carton of peanut butter and fudge. With ice and frozen strawberries in his nose, it took a minute for him to pick up the moonstruck smell. Lance skittered back a few steps, metaphorical hackles rising and teeth bared. Pidge raised a cool eyebrow and set the carton in her shopping cart.

“Hey.”

_Hey?!_

“What are you doing here?” he growled, snatching up his two cartoons and hugging them to his chest.

Pidge frowned and gestured to her cart. “What do you think, genius?”

 Fair point. Lance forced his shoulders to relax from their hunched position. The press of the three moonstones in his jean pocket was a comfort, and for that alone he could try taking Madame Vox’s advice.

Still, what to talk about? “Haven’t… seen you in The Tavern lately,” he tried.

Pidge scowled. “Gee, wonder why.”

“You started it,” Lance reminded her.

_“You_ started it!” she snapped, a hint of wolf gold bleeding into her irises.

“Whatever. Anyway, it’s not like it was a permanent ban. You can go there so long as you don’t fling anyone across the room,” Lance groused, not quite comprehending what he’d said until it was out in the open. Had he really just invited the Were back to The Tavern? She seemed surprised too, blinking twice and shuffling her feet.

“…Good to know.”

Again that whiff of vulnerability tickled the back of his brain. He rubbed his nose against his shoulder.

“Lance? Did you get the-? Oh, hey, Pidge.”

Hunk squeaked up with the cart and Lance took the moment to pull away and set the milk and ice cream down.

Pidge grinned, something small and genuine Lance had never seen before. “Hi, Hunk.”

Hunk looked from Lance to Pidge. “Pidge, this is my buddy, Lance. Lance, this is my new-”

“We’ve met.”

“Oh. Really?” Hunk side-eyed Lance, who coughed and turned away.

Pidge shrugged awkwardly and grabbed the handle of her cart. “Nice seeing you.” She tried to push past them but Hunk reached out and tugged the cart to a stop, a horrified look on his face.

Lance peered at her cart. It was full of frozen meals and microwavable dinners. There wasn’t a fresh fruit or veggie in sight. His stomach sank as he caught the determined look in Hunk’s eye. _Please don’t, for once in your life please don’t be so gosh dang nice-_

“Would you like to join us for dinner tonight? I’m making a chicken casserole and there’s always tons of extras.”

Hunk either didn’t see or _knowingly and willfully_ chose to ignore the hole Lance glared into the back of his head. Pidge again looked nonplussed, but only for a second. The murderous expression on Lance’s face must have amused her because her face lit up in a toothy grin.

“I’d love to.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Lance, can you grab the stuffing for me?”

“Sure thing…” _Traitor._

Lance slouched to the cabinet, pulled out a box of Stovetop Stuffing and tossed it on the counter next to Hunk. It nearly upset the pan of cheese sauce, and Hunk eyed him in annoyance.

“You okay, dude?”

Lance folded his arms. “Just peachy…” _Benedict Arnold._ He glanced at the oven clock. In less than an hour, she would be here.

Hunk stared at him for a second before turning his attention back to the casserole. He added the stuffing and cheese sauce to the chicken and potatoes already in the pan, shaking his head. “Are you upset that I invited Pidge over?”

“What? No!” Lance denied a little too quickly.

Hunk snorted.

“I just… I barely know her, you know?”

Hunk paused and placed his hands on his hips. “ _I_ know her, though. I’d hope you’d trust me not to invite a psychopath to the apartment.”

No, Hunk would never do that. He’d just invited something infinitely worse. “I’m just saying, I’ve never invited any of my coworkers over before, and you’ve never invited any of yours,” Lance groused.

“That’s because I didn’t have a coworker until very recently.” Hunk scooted by him and slid the casserole into the oven. “You saw her cart, I can’t let someone live off of tater tots and frozen pizzas. The spirits of my mom and grandma would haunt me.”

“Your mom and grandma are both alive and kicking.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Lance blew a loud raspberry and was promptly kicked out of the kitchen with some plates and cutlery. On any given day Hunk and Lance would eat at the kitchen counter or the coffee table in the living room, but since “company” was coming, Hunk had pulled out a folding table and tablecloth from somewhere - honestly, Lance had no idea where, their apartment wasn’t that big - and pushed their couch and armchair to the side of the room to make space for a proper dining area.

As Lance set the table, he mentally ran over his game plan one more time. He did have silver, a small amulet his mother had given him for his 15th birthday, tucked in his back pocket. If he was being honest with himself, the likelihood of him needing it would be small. Pidge knew Hunk was unaware of the Other community, and even a werewolf wouldn’t risk exposure… he hoped.

It still didn’t feel right, inviting a Were into his den. He patted the moonstones in his front pocket.

Just for an hour or two.

The time passed quicker than he liked. Hunk had finished setting out the green beans and coconut rice and was pulling the casserole out of the oven when Lance heard faint footsteps followed by a sharp knock on the door.

“Lance— get the door!”

“I know, I heard it!” he snapped. Even before he grabbed the doorknob he could smell her.

Pidge grinned up at him, her eyeteeth winking. She’d changed into a green button-up t-shirt and niceish jeans. Her nose twitched and a small growl escaped her midriff. “Something smells delicious… may I come in?” she added when Lance didn’t move.

“So long as you don’t eat anything other than what’s on your plate,” Lance quipped, but it came out sulkier than he intended. She just raised an eyebrow and stared at him until he stepped aside and she practically leaped over the threshold.

Hunk poked his head out of the kitchen. “You’re right on time, dinner’s ready!”

Pidge’s stomach growled again, louder this time, but she seemed too intent on taking in their apartment to notice. “Nice place, way bigger than mine.” Her eyes landed on their extensive gaming set-up. “Waaait, you guys have _Killbot Phantasm 1_?!” She spun, looking up at Lance with shining eyes.

“Y-yeah, have you played it?” Lance asked in startled bemusement.  

She shook her head, standing on her tiptoes in her excitement. “Do you know how hard it is to find? Where did you get it?”

“I got it secondhand from a friend.” (Plaxum had finished every level, bonus level, and gotten the secret ending, or so she claimed, and given it to Lance in exchange for a memory. He couldn’t remember which one.)

Hunk appeared with the casserole dish clutched tightly between two oven mitts. “We ought to play it after dinner,” he suggested, looking just as eager as Pidge for a moment before his face fell. “Oh, wait, Lance has work in an hour.”

“Oh no, you’re right,” Lance said, barely managing to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Something twinged in his gut as Pidge slowly deflated. “But, I mean, you two can play without—”

“When’s your next day off? We should totally have a game night!” Hunk looked from Pidge to Lance with a triumphant smile. Pidge perked up again, and if she’d been in her canine form Lance was sure her tail would be wagging.

Lance smiled thinly. “Seriously, you don’t have to wait for me to be free to play.”

Pidge handed Hunk her plate. “I think he’s scared,” she whispered loudly.

“Scared?” Hunk asked.

“Scared?!” Lance yelped.

“Yeah, that I’ll wipe the floor with him.”

Lance jerked his chair back with such force it screeched as it scraped against the floor. “Oh, it is on!” he growled. “Next Sunday, you and me. I will destroy you.”

Slamming both palms onto the table, Pidge leaned forward and smirked up at him. “Challenge accepted.”

“Can… can we eat before you guys start brawling?”

* * *

 

Plaxum whistled softly when Lance clocked in an hour later. “What happened? How are you alive?”

“What do you mean?” Lance muttered, spending a tick too long straightening his jacket out on the coat hanger. He could feel tension lingering in his back and shoulders. Against his better judgment, he’d left Hunk alone in their apartment with the Wolf. She’d stayed, at Hunk’s insistence, for dessert and a chance to play _Killbot Phantasm 1_. (“It won’t be a fair competition next Sunday if she hasn’t played it before and you have, right?”) A wink was all he’d gotten in return for a warning death glare shot in her direction when Hunk’s back was turned.

“Dude, I can smell her on you.”

Plaxum’s comment snapped him back to the present. He sniffed at his clothes with some apprehension, but couldn’t scent any trace of her on him.

Plaxum tapped the side of her nose in response to his unanswered question. “We water Fey have better noses than most.”

“What, like sharks?”

She grinned, and for a moment three rows of jagged teeth popped into view. “Something like that. Don’t change the subject.”

Lance sighed. “Hunk invited her over for dinner.”

Plaxum winced in sympathy before turning back to the ovens. “Eesh. Good thing Hunk’s such a great cook, she might have eaten you instead.”

“Who’s eating what now?” Coran poked his head into the kitchen. “I just got word that a band of satyrs will be passing through tonight. Make sure you keep an eye on the cellar, Plax, and you,” Coran waggled a finger at Lance. “Get upstairs. I’ll be warding the staircase behind you tonight, the last thing we need is a tipsy satyr trampling around the second floor.”

* * *

 

Even with the thick wooden floor between him and the bar, Lance could hear the ruckus. It started with a few cheers and magnanimous toasts, then escalated to shrill pan pipes and drinking songs. He jumped each time he heard a chair break or a table tip over and looked toward the unmarked door. He even scooted the armchair closer to better hear any stirrings from within. To his relief and slight amazement, there wasn’t a peep from the other side.

That is, until something that sounded a lot like a drunk satyr yelled “Think fast!” and the floorboards literally shook.

Lance was in the room before the first terrified cry had tapered off, shushing, “Hey, it’s alright, it’s alright… we’re safe…”

When he finally emerged an hour later, purple bruises formed a bracelet around his right wrist. He winced as he rotated his hand. Maybe Plaxum would make him an ice pack.

Coran was waiting for him on the other side of the door, his ginger hair and mustache somewhat frazzled. He caught sight of the way Lance was cupping his hand and raised an eyebrow. Lance shrugged.

“Well, those particular satyrs are banned from The Tavern. We had quite the job of getting them out the door.” Coran folded his arms and eyed Lance carefully. “We did have some help though, from Arus’ newest resident.”

It took Lance longer than it should have to realize what he meant. “Pi– the werewolf?” He’d been too busy to pay attention to what was happening downstairs, but he could imagine it. No satyr, no matter how sloshed, would go toe to toe with a pissed-off werewolf. Lance pinched his lips together to keep from smiling.

“Yes. And she’s asked to speak with you. She gave her word that she wouldn’t throw anything, including you.”

“Oh.”

Coran stared him down. “Are you okay with that?” he asked, his tone as curious as it was concerned.

Lance hooked a thumb toward the door. “Yeah, but…?”

“I’ll take over for a bit. Most of our regulars left once the party got out of hand.”

Lance jerked his head into a nod and shuffled over to the stairs, his shoes clunking against each step in an overly loud echo. The kitchen was empty, and a vague worry collected in his chest until he saw Plaxum helping Rolo rearrange some knocked over tables. “You guys okay?” he asked anyway.

Rolo sighed and rocked back on his heels. “Yup. A couple mending spells and this place’ll be back to normal.”

Looking around, Lance saw a mess that was both more and less than what he was expecting. More, because he was pretty sure most of the floor was now stained with wine and stamped with sodden hoofprints, less because most of the tables and barstools were looking brand new. The only real disaster was behind the bar. A miniature vineyard had grown between the cabinets, thick bunches of luscious grapes hanging from each vine.

“The blessing of Bacchus,” Plaxum tsked, following his gaze. “Don’t eat any of those grapes unless you want to go on a reeeeal interesting trip.”

Lance smirked. “Well, now I _have_ –”

“What happened to your wrist?”

He spun around just in time to see Pidge emerge from the lady’s restroom. She was dabbing at her shirt with a paper towel, her eyes golden flint as they settled on his wrist.

Lance tucked his hand behind his back. “Nothing much. Fell on it weird when the whole damn building shook.”

Pidge snarled. “I hate satyrs, fauns are so much easier to deal with. Look what they did to my shirt!” She pulled away the towel to reveal a deep purple splotch. “This’ll never come out.”

“Sure it will.” Lance pulled out a chair and sat down. “Madame Vox has a detergent that gets rid of any stain.”

Pidge watched him for a moment before walking over to his table and leaning her hip against it. “What’s your job anyway? I didn’t see you here in the bar. Are you a cook?”

Behind him, Plaxum snorted.

“Nah, most Fey are _way too picky_ for my cooking,” Lance replied loudly. A wet towel smacked the back of his head, and Pidge laughed. As her shoulders shook, something black and green peeked out beneath her sleeve.

“You have a tattoo?”

Pidge stopped mid-giggle, blinked, then pulled up her sleeve. A green pi sign outlined in thick black ink gleamed against her pale shoulder in the dim bar light.

“…Nerd.”

Pidge scowled. “At least I don’t work some shady job in a bar.”

“Shady?”

“Why do you keep avoiding the question, hmm?”

Lance leaned in and whispered in a husky whisper. “My job description involves the utmost secrecy.” It was the truth, and he put enough melodrama in it to make her roll her eyes and drop the subject.

Mostly.

“Whatever, I’ll find out all your secrets eventually,” Pidge yawned. She sagged against the table, all loose curves and thin lines. Lance’s fingers itched for his sketchbook.

“Why—?” Something got stuck in his throat and he had to try again. “Why do you care what I am? It doesn’t matter so long as we leave each other alone, right?”

Pidge looked him full in the eye, her irises melting to brown. Even like this, calm and fully human, she looked wolfish. Her grin a soft challenge, her posture a playful relaxation that promised a chase at the slightest provocation. Now that he was paying attention, Lance could scent her magic all around the bar, crisp pine against the satyr’s bawdy spirits. The coyote in him squirmed to be freed. He hadn’t shifted in two weeks and it was beginning to chafe at his psyche. Pidge’s nose twitched, and he wondered if she could smell the sagebrush and desert wind too.

“I’m curious,” she finally answered.

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“Satisfaction brought it back.” She stood and walked toward the exit. 

Lance frowned and stood up. “Wait!” 

Pidge paused and looked back, one hand tangling into her hair. “Coran said you wanted to talk to me about… something?” Lance eked out. 

She shrugged. “Just wanted to check on you. See you next Sunday.”

He watched until the door swung shut behind her.

Plaxum leaned over and whispered to Rolo, “‘Next Sunday’?”

* * *

 

When he got home that night, he spent an extra hour icing his right hand and drawing with his left. Being ambidextrous had its perks. Especially when one wanted to outline curious eyes and messy hair.


	7. Chapter 7

“You’re up early.”

Lance whirled around, clutching a bagel to his chest. Hunk stared back at him, bemused and sleepily leaning against the kitchen counter. He glanced at the clock (7:30 AM) and raised an eyebrow.

“I… guess I am,” Lance finally said, turning his back on Hunk to pop the bagel into the toaster.

“You usually sleep in on your day off.”

“I always sleep in.”

“You know what I mean.”

Lance sidled past him and grabbed a butterknife before padding toward the fridge. He felt Hunk’s curious gaze pinch at the back of his neck. “I’m gonna go on a… hike.”

_“Lance.”_

“I’ll be back before Pidge shows up, don’t worry.”

“One of these days a ranger is gonna catch you.” Hunk squared his shoulders and crossed his arms, the first warning signs of a lecture. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Lance focused on the toaster, willing it to hurry up.

“You know what the fine is for trespassing on federal land is, right?”

Lance scowled at him. “I haven’t gotten caught yet, have I?” he snapped.

Hunk blinked in surprise and Lance bit the inside of his cheek. It had been too long since he’d shifted, and it wasn’t like he could tell Hunk how he snuck into the forest undetected. “Sorry…”

Sighing, Hunk nodded and pulled out the coffee grinder. “Just be careful, I’m not bailing you out again.”

“I- that was one time and completely unrelated-!”

The toaster chose to interrupt him, purely out of spite he was sure. All the appliances in the kitchen pledged their loyalty to Hunk. He buttered his bagel and bit off a chunk with vicious intent.

“Don’t you usually take your "totally legal walks” at night?“ Hunk asked, placing a filter in the coffee machine and pouring the grinds in.

A grin crooked its way onto Lance’s face without his permission. "Not tonight, I’m gonna be busy kicking Pidge’s butt at _Killbot Phantasm 1_.” But before that, he had to make sure he was settled in his skin.

Hunk rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

* * *

  
By the time he reached the shed, Lance was bursting at the seams. He ripped off his clothes with far less care than he usually took and threw them behind some half-rotted crates. He let the Coyote in him take the lead and finally, _finally_ shifted.

_“We aren’t compelled to shift like werewolves are,” Abuela whispered. “But it hurts if we go too long in one form.”_

_“What are we, then?” Lance asked, snuggling deeper into his covers._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“Are we coyotes or humans?”_

_She leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Both and neither. We are Change and Chaos, mijo. We keep the balance.”_

She’d never told him what sort of balance they were supposed to keep.

Lance shook his head and padded along an abandoned deer trail. Spring had settled in, banishing the wintery chill that had lingered under the dense forest canopy. It was different, seeing the forest under the light of day. There was more birdsong, more rustling in the treetops, more light to make crowded spaces a little less crowded. Wildflowers unfurled themselves and Lance caught whiffs of their scent with each step. A hare bounded across his path, the whites in its eyes clearly visible, and he thought about giving chase but scrapped the idea almost immediately. For some reason today didn’t feel like the day to run through the underbrush.

After another half hour, the trail opened up onto the bank of a stream. He sat down and let his head rest on his front paws. Out from under the trees, he could fully appreciate the warm, clear day. He snuffled at a swarm of grasshoppers as they bounded past him, disturbed by some subtle noise or movement he’d failed to catch.

_It’s too bad Pidge can’t be here during the day_.

The thought made him whine and flop onto his side. He didn’t care that she couldn’t shift during the day. He didn’t.

Honestly, it would be better for both of them if he started hunting during the day. Neither would have to worry about running into each other during the full moon. Weres weren’t like his family, they had less control over themselves when they shifted. If Pidge’s Wolf decided to hunt Lance, there would be little he could do to make her change her mind.

But still… it would have been kind of nice to have a hunting partner again.

A screaming jackdaw shattered his would-be nap. Then another, and another. He looked up just in time to see the sky darken with dozens, no, _hundreds_ of birds. Tiny wrens flew alongside massive hawks, all of them shrieking of danger as they flew toward Arus and away from the heart of the forest. Lance scrambled to his feet and squinted into the trees on the other side of the river. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as an unseasonably cold wind ruffled his fur. Something slimy brushed against his feet and he looked down as a wave of worms and beetles wriggled and squirmed past him _and what was going on?!_

He closed his eyes and let his magic reach deep into the ground, merging with the steady rumble of the earth, tangling and twirling past roots and fungi. Coyotes could live almost anywhere: plains, forests, deserts, cities - he mingled with everything.

Everything except the wall of Rot and Death sweeping towards him from the far bank. It snatched at the edges of his magic and coated the back of his throat like bits of burnt sugar. He skittered away from the river, back to the trees and crouched low, his heart thundering in his ears. He had more than half a mind to turn and run but his insatiable curiosity kept him rooted to the spot. Whatever was in the forest felt _evil_ , and Lance needed to know what it was before it hurt anyone.

A full two minutes passed in complete silence. No more birdsong, the chill breeze had died.

Even with his eyes straining to find it, he didn’t see the creature until it stepped out of the treeline and onto the riverbank. He choked back a frightened whine.

Lance had seen horses before but never had he seen one quite so large. It stood nine feet tall at the shoulder with a proud, arching neck, hooves the size of dinner plates, and _completely skinless_. Bloody, flayed muscles stretched and pulled as it pawed at the mud. Black ichor dripped from its hooves and fell to the ground with a wet, steaming hiss that turned the surrounding vegetation into rancid decay. It somehow still had a mane and tail, but both were thin and stringy bits of wiry hair. Billowing yellow smoke erupted from its eye sockets, obscuring its eyes… if it had any.

The creature began pacing up and down the bank, seemingly unwilling to continue. _What, is it some kind of vampire horse?_ Lance wondered. _Can it not cross running water?_

Before he could think through the idea, a bubble of flesh rose just behind the creature’s shoulder blades. He watched with sick fascination as it grew and lengthened into the shape of a human torso, followed by thin, skeletal arms at its sides and a human skull on top. _This_ skull had eyes, vivid orange ones that blinked thrice before staring right back at Lance.  

He ran.

Tried to, at least.

Before he could so much as twitch, the horse skull opened it’s maw _(oh, those are fangs)_ and shrieked - a high piercing note that stabbed into Lance’s brain and paralyzed him to the point where he couldn’t breathe. The Coyote in him screamed for him to run, instead, he toppled over, his eyes still transfixed on the creature. Rot and Death poured into his nose and down his throat and sucked the air out of his lungs.

The creature laughed, shrill and inhuman, both mouths releasing puffs of steam and sulfurous gas. One of its hands pointed to the ground and a sickly bramble bush burst into existence. The brambles uprooted themselves and braided together to form a whip, which the creature took and cracked against the nearest tree. The tree groaned and shuddered, the trunk turning grey and disintegrating before it toppled over with a muffled crash. The creature watched the fall dispassionately, then turned its attention back to Lance. It reared back, and Lance’s oxygen-deprived mind knew it was going to charge.

_Someone help. Please help._

And charge it did, but only a few feet. As soon as its front hooves touched the water, the creature shrieked again, this time in agony. It stumbled and tripped over itself, the shiny red muscles of its fetlocks turning black and crackling into dust where the water had touched it. The spell over Lance’s body lifted and he could breathe. He could run.

He wasn’t quite sure what happened next, only that he was getting away from it. The Rot and Death were further and further behind him, though it still lingered in his nose like a spoiled egg.

The forest fell past him in an instant, in another he was diving into the abandoned shed and shucking his fur coat for fingers and toes. His hands shook as he pawed through his jean pockets until he found the moonstone. He clutched it in one hand and pressed it against his frantic heartbeat. Madame Vox’s magic rippled through his arms and down into his lungs, allowing him to breathe deeply.  He crumpled against the floor until the world stopped spinning.

“Wha-a-at was th- that?” he whimpered. “What- what-… was that?”

Maybe an hour passed, maybe two, before he was too cold and he slowly got dressed. He twitched and shuddered his way into town, grateful that the streets were relatively empty. He barely registered Plaxum’s startled face when he wandered into The Tavern - barely heard her frightened cry when he collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brownie points to anyone who can guess what the monster is in the comments.


	8. Chapter 8

_Lance whimpered through clenched teeth. “Ow ow ow!”_

_Veronica gingerly pulled the last thorn out of his bruised and bloody knee. “This is gonna sting,” was her only warning before she doused his leg in hydrogen peroxide. Lance let out a high pitched, tea kettle squeal and dug his fingers into his ankles as pink bubbles scoured away the last bits of dirt and infection._

_“Serves you right for jumping into that thorn bush.” Her tone was as harsh as her hands were gentle, dabbing at his knee with a wipe before pulling out a large band-aid. “We’re not Weres, you know. We don’t heal as quickly as they do.”_

_He waited until the band-aid was on and she was about to stand before grabbing her arm. “Don’t tell mom.”_

“Plax, he’s waking up!”

Lance winced away from the sound, too loud and grating for his sensitive ears. He curled up into a ball and grabbed one of the warm, heavy blankets he was swathed in and pulled it over his head. The press of hot air sank into his skin, which felt clammier and colder than it should have. The back of his neck was drenched in cold sweat, and he felt a headache making itself know just behind his eyes.

Something creaked nearby and a large hand pulled back the blanket. Lance growled - tried to, anyway - and glared at Rolo. The easy-going bartender grinned back.

“Thought we were gonna have to throw you in a hot bath, you were a walking popsicle when you got here.”

“You’re not supposed to put someone in a bath to warm them up!” Plaxum’s voice cut through the cotton in Lance’s ears as she slid into his vision. The glamour around her eyes was gone, leaving two watery blue (and distinctly fishlike) orbs peering at him in concern.

Lance sat up and was pleasantly surprised when the world didn’t splinter into pieces. He was on the low, plush couch that took up half of Coran’s tiny office, right next to the full-to-bursting filing cabinet that smelled of sage and witch hazel. There were at least five blankets piled on top of him, and heated rice packs wedged in every which way around his feet, legs, and torso.

“What happened?” he croaked out.

Plaxum and Rolo looked at each other. “…We were hoping you could tell us. You wandered in here and just, sorta, collapsed,” Rolo answered, rubbing the back of his neck.

What _had_ happened? His memory was vague, almost purposefully so. Lance remembered sneaking into the forest - the game with Pidge, he had to get ready - and stopping by the river… the river…

“What about the river?” Plaxum pressed, and Lance twitched. He must have said that last part aloud.

“I was by the river… and all of a sudden the sky was full of birds, and the frogs and beetles were trying to get away…” The shine of pale sunlight on raw, bloody muscle blinded his mind’s eye and he shuddered.

Plaxum patted his cheek. “Hey, you’re safe.”

He nodded. Still, he was desperate to avoid thinking about that… _thing_.

“Where’s Coran?”

Rolo snickered. “He went to collect some ingredients for one of his health concoctions.”

Lance groaned and hung his head. The last time he’d made the mistake of telling Coran he was sick, his employer had forced a slimy green liquid down his throat with the promise that it would clear up his cold. It had, but the oozy texture and awful taste was not worth the unstuffed nose and soothed throat. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I can get out of it?” he tried.

“I doubt it, I’ve never seen Coran look so worried.” Plaxum bit her lip, but Lance could tell she wanted to say more. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out his phone. “By the way, text Hunk before he calls the police.” She and Rolo stood and left the office.

Lance looked at his inbox. There were fifteen texts, all from Hunk and crescendoing in worry. The last few were in all caps - never a good sign.

_LANCE SRSLY ITS BEEN HOURS  
PLZ DON’T TELL ME YOU GOT ARRESTED  
PIDGE IS HERE AND SHE’S FREAKING OUT_

Lance had to reread the last message several times. He checked the clock. Barely a quarter to three, what was she doing at his apartment?

_Dude, chill. I’m fine._

Hunk replied in half a minute

_Where are you??? Pidge said you were in trouble but she won’t tell me what happened._

Rolo handed him a glass of water, and Lance sipped it carefully for a few minutes. It felt good, but the burnt sugary sensation still lingered on his tongue.

_I’m at the tavern. I’m fine._

“Lance! Thank the stars!”

Lance flinched and dropped his phone into his lap. Coran bustled through the door and crouched by his side, one hand clutching a mug, the other coming to rest on Lance’s shoulder. “You look much improved,” he observed, his voice careful and quiet. “How do you feel?”

“Better…?” Lance tried, but he sounded unconvincing to his own ears. He was warm and comfortable, yet something clung to his magic, stickier than any spider’s web and far more sinister.

Coran nodded, as if it were to be expected, and thrust the mug into Lance’s hands. “Drink.”

Lance whined but obeyed. It was all the worst parts of moss and mud, and he gagged twice before getting it down. As soon as it settled in his stomach, he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Whatever had caught him in the forest was washed away - his mouth and throat were finally free of it.

“What happened?”

The older Fey’s hand was still on his shoulder, a firm anchor, and Lance could speak. He quietly recounted his terrifying encounter by the river. Coran’s face grew pale and pinched as he described the monster, but he didn’t interrupt.

Finally, when he’d gotten to the end of it, “That is rather disquieting to here.”

Lance leaned forward. “Do you know what that thing was?”

Sighing, Coran stood and walked to his filing cabinet. He pulled out a dusty file and peered at its contents before nodding. “I believe so, though I wonder at it being so far inland.” He passed the file to Lance. “It’s a Nuckelavee - an Orcadian sea demon. They wander the land during the winter months, causing plagues and droughts wherever they go.”

Lance flicked through the file, pausing at a sketchy drawing of the creature. Cold sweat trickled down his neck. He’d met some nasty Others, but a demon… that was something else entirely. Demons were right up there with dragons and leviathans. “But it’s spring, why is there one here?”

Coran’s chair creaked as he sat down. He steepled his fingers together and frowned. “That’s why I’m worried. The Mither o’ the Sea should have driven it into the ocean with all the others - it shouldn’t even be here in the first place. We’re far from the coast, let alone Scotland.” A long, blustery sigh fluttered through his thick mustache. “This is only the worst of a series of sightings, to tell the truth.”

“What do you mean?” Lance asked, trying not to sound too peevish that his brush with death was being reduced to a “sighting”.

“There’ve been rumors of ghouls and poltergeists taking up residence in outskirts of town, witches practicing black magic on humans, all sorts of nasty Others seem to be flocking to town – you remember that vampire that came here a few weeks ago?”

Lance nodded, it would be hard to forget those glowing red eyes or the disgusting drink he’d ordered. “I remember. It was the night I met - _officially_ met…” he paused, frowned, and shook his head. That had to be a coincidence… right?

Coran didn’t press, but the vague frown told Lance he was thinking the same thing.

“But why are Dark Others coming to Arus?” It was a question Lance had no answer for. There weren’t any particularly powerful ley lines around here, and no sites of great evil or desecration. If anything, the presence of a powerful Fey like Coran and… well, he didn’t know exactly what Madame Vox and her grandchildren were, but he knew enough to guess that they wouldn’t be happy about Dark Others moving into their lands.

The clock on Coran’s desk chimed, and Lance realized Coran hadn’t answered. The older Fey was fiddling with a fountain pen.

“Coran-?”

A loud crash, followed by the scrape of wood against wood and Rolo’s annoyed shout had the two of them sitting up straight and looking to the door. It slammed open and Pidge tumbled in. The scent of pine and fur followed, her eyes were slits of gold. She saw Lance - his mug and blankets and rice packs - and lurched toward him.

“Did you run all the way here?!” he squeaked, unable to concentrate on anything else. Sure, Arus was tiny, but _still_.

Pidge nodded, her cheeks red and chest heaving with exertion. “What… what happened?!” she gasped. Her voice seemed on the verge of a growl, and Coran moved Lance’s side; not quite between them, but close enough. Pidge noticed and glowered.

_“What happened?”_ she repeated. “Why is he…?”

Coran held up a hand. “He’s been through a bit of a shock-”

“Don’t you know?” Lance interrupted, his eyes glued on Pidge’s face. It twisted into a mixture of incredulity and annoyance and she turned her glare on him.

“Why would I ask if I already knew, genius?”

“Hunk said you _knew_ I was in trouble. How did you know?”

Pidge opened her mouth (her incisors looked sharper than usual), only to close it again with a snap. Again the clock ticked, loud and impatient as it waited for someone to speak.

Lance folded his arms, determined not to break the silence. A tiny suspicion gripped the back of his thoughts as he watched her look at the ground shuffle her feet. He didn’t know what to make of her darting eyes or red ears. Was she embarrassed? Ashamed? How could she know he was in trouble if she didn’t also know what was lurking in the forest?

There were many who considered Werewolves to be Dark Others, his family included.

Finally, she looked up. “Are you okay?” Her hand reached out as if to pull back the blankets and inspect him more thoroughly.

Lance planted his feet on the floor and stood. Nothing terrible happened, so he let the blankets fall to the couch and grinned. “I’m okay. Still gonna kick your ass tonight,” he added, hoping the playful growl in his voice was convincing. If she wouldn’t answer him directly, he’d just watch and wait for the truth.

Adaptable - that’s what he was.

Pidge’s shoulders relaxed and her eyes softened to hazel, “Keep dreaming. Hunk’s waiting for us at your apartment, we should go…” Again her hand reached out, this time catching on his sleeve.

“Yeah, sure.” He let himself be tugged along.

Coran glanced sharply at Lance on the way out.


End file.
